


powering through

by Oshii



Series: I Have That Effect on Women: Lucifer H/C Prompt Fills ;) [1]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Deckerstar - Freeform, F/M, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 22:36:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17775503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshii/pseuds/Oshii
Summary: Sick!Lucifer, heedless of his fragile state, invites Chloe over to the penthouse to go over some missing links on a case. Things do not end well for him. Chloe sticks around to help him out. Emeto, h/c, nausea and back rubbing!





	powering through

**Author's Note:**

> For an anonymous Tumblr prompt:
> 
> Can we get a sick Lucifer trying to suck it up to spend time around Chloe even though being around her just makes him feel worse, and it's not like she's going to desert him when it's obvious he's feeling so sick.
> 
> Posted Jan. 31, 2019.  
> Original link: https://oshii.tumblr.com/post/182457274184/can-we-get-a-sick-lucifer-trying-to-suck-it-up-to

“Lucifer? I’m here,” Chloe called out, stepping off the elevator.

The penthouse was dark, illuminated faintly by the shimmering skyline beyond the guardrails. Distantly, she heard the ubiquitous echoing of ambulance sirens and traffic noise in the streets below – the L.A. lullaby, a cacophony as familiar to her inhabitants as it was unsettling to visitors.

“Detective.”

She pivoted to face Lucifer, appearing soundlessly on the landing, six foot twelve and smooth even at rest. He’d shed the suit jacket and stood before her in slacks and his plain white undershirt, unbuttoned slightly. She noticed that it clung to him, damp around the collar, and that his posture wasn’t so smooth after all. But, he gave her a winning smile, and two short claps caused the lights to swell to appropriate ambiance.

“D’you like my Clapper?” He grinned, but it lacked some of its usual charm. “The best kind of clap!”

“Hey, Lucifer,” she greeted, brow furrowing as she watched him step down and…nearly stumble? “So…what’s with the super secret penthouse meeting?”

“Why, I thought we could discuss some details of the case, without any beleaguering nightlife distractions.” He brought a forearm up to adjust his cuff, lip pursing at the dexterous task. “Bourbon or scotch, Detective? Or are you more of a tequila girl?”

“I meant,” she continued, folding her arms, “why are we meeting  _up here_ , and not  _down there_?”

His mouth hardened at the corners as he selected a decanter and poured himself a glass. “As I said, Detective, I’m not feeling the nightlife tonight, is all.” He downed the first two fingers and poured another. Chloe could have sworn she saw his hand shaking around the glass he clutched.  _No way,_  she thought.

“Weird, but whatever.” She unfolded her arms and slipped off her coat. “So, what’d you find?”

Lucifer licked his lips, lowering the glass and casting his gaze downward. “Not much, I’m afraid,” he admitted, and cleared his throat. “That’s why I’ve called you here. I’m hoping you might be of assistance.”

She watched him down the rest of the contents in the glass, and reach for the decanter a third time. And…yeah, his hand was definitely shaking. And did he look super pale in this lighting, or was it just her? “So, you called me here, because you need  _my_  help,” she reiterated. “After you insisted that you ‘got this’.”

Liquor poured, he had to pause and clear his throat again, and this time, it caught with a sharp, dry cough. His other hand raised to press briefly against his chest, and his dark brow furrowed in discontentment. “Oh, dear,” he murmured, sipping from the glass. “Forgive me, Detective. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

“It’s…fine.” She furrowed her own brow. “Hey, are you feeling okay?”

“Peachy keen, why do you ask?” His smile was too bright, too forced; his grip tightened around the glass.

“Lucifer, I can see your flop sweat from here, and you’re shaking worse than my grandma Betty.”

“Well, that’s just because I’ve only made it to three of these babies,” he declared, and finished off the glass. “Ah, lovely. As far as the case goes –” he paused, abruptly, and brought a fist up to his mouth to stifle a foul-tasting burp.

Chloe’s eyes widened, and Lucifer breathed a throaty chuckle. “Not to worry, just went down a bit rougher than expected, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Now, as I was saying, with this case, I think th—”

“Lucifer.”

“Yes, Detective?”

Chloe folded her arms again, eyeing him with motherly scrutiny. “You’re about to be sick, aren’t you?”

He scoffed, trying to play her off, but sweat beaded at his temples and she saw him swallow visibly. “No need for the mother hen act, Detective. Not when we’ve got a killer to catch.” Pouring himself yet another two fingers of fine scotch, he gestured broadly to the couch. “Shall we?”

She walked up to him instead, and gently disengaged his arm, prying the glass from his fingers and setting it on the counter, to which he forced a smirk.

“Detective, if you wanted a drink, I’d have gladly poured you one.”

“No.” She kept hold of his hand. “No more drinking. C’mon.”

Her other hand settled on his back as she walked him toward the couch, and he suddenly seemed to deflate beneath her presence. Her eyes widened, and she supported him more soundly. “Here, sit down, and I’ll grab a trash can and some water.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Detective,” he muttered, eyelashes batting as he lowering down onto the sofa, one hand sliding up to clutch his belly. “I’m quite all right. As I said, we have a  _killer_  to catch—”

An abrupt (but completely anticipated) gag cut off his sentence, and that hand flew up to cover his mouth. Chloe whirled wildly, searching for a receptacle – trash can, conveniently empty fruit bowl on the table? No…no…shit.

“ _Chloe_ —” gasped Lucifer from the couch, gagging again and bending over with imminent warning.

“Hang on,” she stressed, hurrying towards the bar, where she was sure there’d been an ice bucket sitting. She made it back to him just in time, holding the bucket under his chin just as he grabbed for it and lurched forward with a violent retch, bringing up a flood of liquor and stomach acid.

“There you go,” she soothed, keeping hold of the bucket with one hand and rubbing a few circles on his back with the other hand as he gasped, coughed harshly, and heaved again, this time strained and liquid. “Get it out. I gotcha.”

Gone was his usual charismatic façade, dissolved into streaming tears clinging to his dark lashes, trembling fingers wrapped round the ice bucket, and shaky pattern breathing. “Oh,” he gasped, “bloody _Hell_.”

“Shh,” Chloe reassured him, still rubbing gentle circles on his back. “It’s all right. You’re okay.”

“No,” he choked out, shaking his head with a pained grimace. “ _Leave me!_ ”

What Chloe didn’t realize was that this plea was less out of embarrassment than it was of divine necessity – _I’m vulnerable around you, Detective_ , echoed his confession, unbidden;  _you’re my utter weakness._

“No,” she echoed back at him, mouth pressed in firm resolution. “Not when you’re this sick.”

He sighed in total wearied defeat, shoulders slumping and face whitening as he, again, doubled over the bucket. Having already expelled most of his stomach contents, this heave was thinner and drier, his expulsion efforts wrenching up a mere dribble of liquid. Spent, he gasped a short moan in the aftermath, eyes still closed and wet lips parted to let drip a string of mucus into the bucket.

“Fuck me,” he whispered, letting his forehead rest on the rim of the bucket as he breathed.

Chloe spread her hand wider, rubbing up and down the expanse of his back. She felt the dampness of his sweat soaking through his shirt; the still-quivering stretches of broad muscle in his shoulders and sides. They simply sat like this for a minute, her letting him catch his breath and recover, him relishing quietly in the physical comfort she provided. It was decidedly different from his usual preferred method of touching, but circumstances notwithstanding, he…found himself rather enjoying the contact.

“Forgive me, Detective,” he murmured after a while. “This…isn’t the usual sort of wet and wild pyrotechnics that goes on around here.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” she assured him, voice high and gentle in the way it usually only was with a sick Trixie. “I’ll go get you some water. Was it something you ate? Or…”

His answering gag was enough to stop her in her tracks, and she felt the heat rising in her cheeks as she gave his back a short little apology rub before standing and heading back over to the bar. 

Whatever had gotten into Lucifer tonight, she decided, she wasn’t going to leave until she knew he would be okay.

And if that meant bribing Maze to watch Trixie until she got back home, then so be it.


End file.
